


A Silver Handful of Golden Minutes

by Mx_Maxie



Category: Original Work
Genre: Branding, Breathplay, Cock & Ball Torture, Collars, Dom/sub, F/M, Lingerie, Painplay, Praise Kink, Shotgunning, Subspace, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25793635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Maxie/pseuds/Mx_Maxie
Summary: There she is sweetling, your Goddess. Yours to worship and desire. How lucky you are.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 11





	A Silver Handful of Golden Minutes

Face down, at her feet, where you belong. Face down, ass up, like she posed you. Face down, leashed there, collar hooked to the ring set into the floor just for this.

You want to see her, don’t you? Right now, especially now, but you’re good. You’re very good, and you don’t lift your head. Though you want to, you so want to. To see her. Gorgeous her. Sprawled and lounging in the mid-evening glow, golden and gorgeous.

She’s bathed in it, washed over and painted in strokes of decadence. You know she is, even though you can’t see it right now. You’ve seen her enough times to know but…but you want to see again.

See her. Beautiful her. In her black lace, creamy skin on such perfect display, right there and ready to touch. See her with her head thrown back and her hair spilling and the long-long line of her neck as she swallows down-down another lungful of smoke. You hear her breathing it out, smell it puffing in the air, hazing around you.

Silver, tobacco smoke silver, and golden hour glitter. And her. God  _ her _ . Sat in the middle like the real jewel of the piece. Sucking down another breath of silver, lips pursed around the base of the cig, lips painted so ruby red.

“Still,” she hums, voice wafting down-down to you, from the heights and peaks above. An order from a Goddess is what that is, though she doesn’t need to order, because you’re so perfectly obedient for her. You crave her voice though, don’t you? Sweet thing, Goddess’ plaything.

You love being ordered by her, placed and posed however she’ll have you. You haven’t moved an inch, not since she leashed you down and forced your face down-down with a foot. With her heel, on the back of your head, forcing you down-down. Inexorably down and away from her majesty, because you hadn’t earned it, because you had to  _ earn _ it.

Just a glimpse was all you got, of her spread thighs and curled lips, the unlit cigarette hanging by the fingertips.

Still she says and still you stay, biting down on the traitor shudder that almost jerks you up. Still she says and still you are, as she rests the glass on your back, right below the curve of your spine, right over the curl of her brand. You almost twitch, almost jerk, almost moan, but she didn’t give permission, did she?

She said Still, and that’s what you’ll be. Even though you’re sucking every desperate breath through your teeth, keeping yourself still and steady. The cold glass is the only point of contact you have, the only sensation, and it’s almost too much. Your buzzing with-with-with…with what sweet thing?

Buzzing with the arousal twisted low and sweet in your gut? Buzzing with the desperate need to be touched? Nearly shaking out of your electric bones with the need for her, heart stopping _her_ , to acknowledge you. Give you some more, give you something else?

Maybe if you’re good. Maybe if you earn it, what do you think? Oh, but darling little worshipers like you don’t  _ need _ to think. Why would you need to have any thought except her? Ways to please her, how to serve her, how to be the best precious thing you possibly could be for  _ her _ ?

See? You don’t need to think. You just need to stay as you are, face down, ass up. Holding that pose, staying that position. And see how easy she makes it for you? She keeps her heel on your head, forced down in case you ever thought about looking up. Not that you do, something more than just the leash keeps you down, right?

Something hooked in your gut and tight round your throat, something keeping you hard and leaking and desperate and near keening. Poor little thing, needy little slut.

“Heel.”

And you lock. Muscles freeze, breath catches. Waiting. Waiting. What is she. What will she— _ ohhh _

The glass disappears. Whisked away, taken away, leaving cold. Leaving cool. But not for long. Not for lon— _ha_ , yess, ohh yes.

The pain is…it’s charring-jarring-snaring. Stealing every point of attention and narrowing it all down to this. To the grit and grind of the cherry against your skin. To the smoulder of smoke and heat on your back. To her, vicious  **_Her_ ** , snuffing out her cigarette on your back.

She burns the cold away, chases it out with a simple-sharp pain that has your lungs seizing and throat closing. And you’re hard, so-so hard, pretty pet. It  _ hurts _ , but you  **_like_ ** it, so very much. So much and so good and so yess  _ please _ , Majesty.

“Speak,” she says, careless, like it’s nothing, like she’s only flicking the ash. Says it like she’d care more about the ash.

“Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you,” is all that tumbles pass your trembling lips. All you can say, not even think to say because your brain’s off, brain’s gone. There’s only this, only pleasure, only her.

Cock hard, so hard, and twitching against your stomach, but it’s not your focus. Can’t be. When she.

Lifts her foot, and reaches down, and unhooks your leash.

Drags you up, onto your haunches, to look up at her face.

“Mistress?” you croak-choke, watch the curl of the smoke. Sneaking past her lips, sparkling in the golden hour sunshining around her.

She says nothing, but that smile, that smile says everything she doesn’t. Has you scrambling up, head tipped back and mouth open, pawing at her hips and frantic. 

No words to say, no words to hear, as she leans down-down, to meet you-meet you and kiss you-kiss you. Soft and gentle and not enough, but it’s all you’ll get. Soft and gentle and breathing into your mouth, blowing that silver smoke down your caught-breath throat until you’re dizzy-dazed and blinking through the haze. 

To look at her, to moan for her. Loud and lewd and vulgar, just the way she likes. Whining in the back of your throat and watching the smoke float back out. Feeling it catch on the way and grate but good so good, like the char of the cherry on cool flesh. One kiss is all you get, one kiss is all you’re allowed, before she’s swooping away again, leaning back into her seat and leaving you there.

Grasping at her hips, still, and chasing the thrill of her taste. And—

“Guh, thank you!” you wheeze. Back straight, head hazed, as she step-step-steps on your drawn tight-tight balls. 

And the pain is bursting behind your eyes. And the pain is broken glass in your broken throat. And the pain is incandescent. The kind of pain only she can give you, the kind of pain that snatches you right out of the world and pushes you into that place where everything is easy and easier. 

Where all you have to do is hold onto her hips and shiver-shake-shudder. Where you just have to moan and groan and whine for her, high and wet. Where she taps your cheek and you stick out your tongue for her, to tap-tap-tap ash. Keep it stuck out, keep it there darling. Don’t move, not allowed. Not until she glances down to where her foot is holding you perfectly still.

And then she says, “ _move_ ” and you fall forward. Against her leg like a string cut puppet, collapse against her as the breath punches its way back into your lungs. Filling your chest and dizzying your head as you…what do you…

“Move, precious,” she coaxes and right-right-right yes.

You grind your cock against her stocking covered leg. Drag along the slip-slide nylon, wet and rasping and yes-yes. You can’t help yourself, and she doesn’t want you to. She wants you like this, desperate and cum hungry. Needy and sex stupid, just a pet, just a plaything amusing her. 

A hand on your head, petting your hair is the only encouragement she gives, but it’s the only encouragement you need, isn’t it? You don’t need her to tell you what to do, because you’re good, you’re so good. You already know. She’s trained you so well. To grind and hump and rut against her leg like a mangy bitch in heat, just chasing-chasing-chasing that one bit of relief.

“Please please please please,” stutters from your mouth as you crest, as you’re already there. Almost there, nearly there. Please please please.

She doesn’t—not with words but—hand on your nape, pulling the collar and you. Eyes spotting, eyes rolling. You’re cumming-cumming for her. Making a mess of her leg, her stockings, but she doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t push you away, or click her tongue, mad. 

She lets you, holds you there, by the nape, as your back arches and your cock pulses, and your hips never stop moving. Rutting under the overstimulation is painful, going until she s-stops y-you. Ugh-until she p-pulls u- _up!_

“Good boy,” one sharp tug, one sweet praise, and you’re climbing into her lap, being let up. To be smothered with kisses, petted and purred over. A hand on your nape, smoothing over the collar she locked there. A hand on your back, below the dip and curve just over your ass, to trace that letter. Her letter, her brand, her property. **_M_**

“Very good,” she hums in your ear, and blows more silver shining smoke to mix with the golden glitter hour.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was entirely based on a [*photoset](https://twitter.com/glyttercy/status/1291904950109380609) my friend M did over on kink twitter. Seriously. She's gorgeous. 
> 
> *warning for nsfw photoset.


End file.
